Inconstant Moon
by kuroren23
Summary: AU/DARKFIC. Edward is a renowned Death Dealer out for revenge, Jacob is the prince of the ancient clan of the Loupe Garou and Bella is the woman caught between their ancient feud.
1. Chapter 1

Authors Note: This is a dark fiction. It will have none of the usual mushy quality one associates predictably with the tale of Twilight. Ms. Meyer's work has become my dark muse and I wish to explore it fully--no matter where it leads. Perhaps I am writing about the dark shadows that lurk beneath the romance of vampires and human. Perhaps I am merely exploring a different way to write. Either way, I am offering this work as a sort of test. To see if I could still string together words that would call to others like me--scribes and readers.--kuroren 23.

* * *

**INCONSTANT MOON**

**O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,  
That monthly changes in her circled orb,  
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.**

_- Act II Scene II, Romeo and Juliet_

* * *

**BOOK ONE**

_Edward POV_

I remember that night with a clarity I wish I hadn't. There have been many instances when I find the curse of immortality a wearisome burden, but never more so than when I wish it was possible for someone like me to forget...or at least have a choice in what I could and would forget.

It began in much the same way as all the others I had spent as a child of the night...wandering aimlessly through the backstreets of the more populous thoroughfares, enjoying the anonymity that the cover of shadows provide as I lingered at the fringes of a life I could no longer take part in.

The nights I used to spend hunting and preying upon the mindless masses that didn't know better hasn't faded from my mind...unlike a sun-bleached photograph exposed too long under the punishing light and heat, there is no fuzziness or blurriness that could comfort me. I try as much as I can not to bring focus and clarity to my mind where those memories are concerned; they offer me nothing but the garish reminders of the many hues the color of blood could take. It is no wonder that I never felt neither affection nor affinity for wearing that shade on my person.

But on that night, I broke the rule. In a passing hint of whimsy or a brief acquaintance with madness, I wore a vivid scarlet cravat—a startling counterpoint to the mostly black ensemble I normally wear. I considered wearing such a color as an act of defiance—a color so normally associated with life and so inversely created upon death. It fit the paradox of my existence...I live to draw out that bright red liquid in order to survive, but at the price of depriving life from another.

I had just finished feeding then--sated as always with the exquisite feeling of having that pulsing, living essence within me; revitalizing me; strengthening my immortal shell once more; repairing the damages that hunting entails, though it had been decades since I last sustained anything worth worrying about. I was about to flicker out of the spot where my latest victim wandered in like an unlikely lamb to the slaughter when the smell hit my overly stimulated senses--bringing me to my knees...gasping against the onslaught of images branding themselves in my mind.

_**Death.**_

I found my body moving long before I realized where I was heading; noting belatedly that my body was operating on auto-pilot, navigating effortlessly through the dense darkness and foliage, seeking the tantalizing aroma of the one fragrance that could bring me to heel:

_**Blood...**_

_Closer...closer...have to get closer...now...faster..._

The mantra played incessantly in my head like some broken down record, inciting my senses until I regressed into a creature of pure instinct; eyes fever-bright with the thrill of the hunt, chasing after the lure of an irresistible bait--one whose appeal only those born of the Inconstant Moon could understand.

Yet on hindsight, there was the frisson of danger; the faintest hint of inexplicable reluctance slowing down my headless flight; some part of me knew that whatever scene would greet me would not be a welcome sight. Somehow, I knew that what I was heading for would bring about a gamble I may not win, but I shook the feeling aside, brushing past the hesitation that warred deep within me. I reminded myself that an immortal had few things to fear and even fewer situations where the odds were not in my favor. With a grim cast to my face, I raced forward—needing to see just what it was that called to me from such a vast distance.

It was a picture straight out of hell. Livestock strewn like so many broken dolls, broken pieces littered the ravaged grounds where a mansion once stood and where rubble now remains--the scene of an obvious raid evident from sheer number of casualties found at the site. Though perhaps a raid is too weak a word to describe the chaos that greeted his eyes...

It was a massacre...

As always, he kept to the shadows, masking his presence from other creatures instinctively. _A hunter all-too familiar with the basic rules of survival._ He kept his eyes pinned on the small group of creatures that stalked amidst the smoldering pile of burned wood and charred bodies, delivering death to those whose bodies insist that they continue breathing, but the deaths these creatures brought were almost preferable to the pain that being kept alive brought to those they chose to keep. These unfortunate ones were dragged screaming into the unknown shadows that lurked in the fringes of the ghostly grounds of the manor never to be seen again. Then the creatures that lingered there vanished along with their spoils…sinking into the darkness from whence they have emerged…summoned… just as he had been by the inimitable stench of death. All that remained to prove of their coming or of their bounties fate were the deep trenches on the ground where nails desperately grabbed and scratched in the last futile attempt at freedom.

When silence finally echoed loud enough to assure him that no threat existed to neither jeopardize his serenity nor compromise his position he stepped out of the shadows and into the fading light. His eyes scanned the surrounding grounds, noting with clinical detachment the large number of human remains that was scattered all around the smoldering ruins. Here and there severed limbs dangled from tree tops and low hanging branches; arms that were no longer attached lay broken among torn legs and thighs like pieces of fowl readied for roasting. The very grounds where the infidels tread were covered by the grisly remnants of what used to be parts of living beings; eyes that were no longer lodged into their sockets rolled like gruesome marbles--shock, fear and pain imprinted forever in their frozen glassy gaze. Fingers that counted more than ten now lay like discarded sticks protruding from the ground not unlike some ghoulish seed. And heads--numerous gory trophies of death and decay rolling like discarded helms of headless armies that would never again stand, their faces locked in the visage of terror and inhuman pain. And in the middle of this macabre tableau, awash in the flowing flood of unending blood that stained the ground and turned it black, his sharp predatory eyes found an unusual sight.

It was a child, no more than six or seven, dressed in the ragged tatters of a blood-stained nightgown--long dark hair smeared with the gristle of torn flesh, matting the strands with blood that dripped from their tips like ghastly ruby rain...

The child sat amidst the site or carnage without any visible horror reflected on her young visage…her face was composed…almost serene as she looked towards a point in the sky only she could see…her pose and form was innocence personified…if only one would fail to notice the troubling irregularities with this cherubim-like child.

Her alabaster skin was flawless…smooth and without blemish but for the stain of dried blood….drying blood…fresh blood flowing in rivulets over her small frame…her hands were small…delicate…seemingly incapable of any great strength except for maybe clutching a treasure toy or the lacy edges of a favored night gown…and yet the pale, frail digits clenched around what was unmistakably a severed limb of a young man or woman, firm pieces of flesh…no bigger than the size of a small coin ripped out as if by small ravenous mouths…

But perhaps the most chilling of all was the small smile painted on her rosebud lips…lips whose corners were stained by the tell-tale hue of red…and the vacant look in her guileless eyes she leveled my way when I crouched in front of her. It was as if she was unaware of the death that surrounds her.


	2. Chapter 2

He wondered how best to approach the child. In his mind, there were only two options available and he was certain that in a moment he would require either of the two. If the child was human, mortal and untainted, he would deliver her to the nearest town and go on his way. That would be the end of this particular detour. If the second option came up, in which case the child would then be no longer under the term "normal human", then a requisite action would then be taken—he would deliver it to Death's door.

There was no hesitation in his clinical assessment of facts. It was his job—his duty to judge and assess the situation in a glance and formulate the most effective means necessary to carry out the requirements of his trade. He was a Death Dealer. Someone like him knew no middle ground. He worked according to a firm, unswerving contract—he delivered life or death—as was stated in each assignment.

Without a flicker of emotion on either his face or his beautiful, otherworldly eyes, he crouched closer to the child, lifting her from amidst the pile of slaughtered human remains. He noted that her tiny fists hadn't released the severed arm, nor had any emotion crossed her doll-like face. With a flick of his wrist he dislodged the gnawed-on arm and resumed his careful inspection of this unusual and only survivor.

The matted hair was so soaked in blood he could not tell if there was a head wound underneath the gristle. But he found no blurriness in the child's gaze and so he rightly judged that she suffered no head trauma. His eyes swept along the small frame, noting bruises along the thin arms and long scratches that marred what would have otherwise been an unmarked complexion. So far, the child appeared exactly as a lone survivor ought to look like. But something was nagging at the back of his mind.

_**Why was she the only one left?**_

In any attack, children are often the most usual casualties; because of their inherent weakness and fear, they succumb more to the panic that raids and attacks incite. But this child suffered no broken limbs; there was neither sign of tear in her gown nor any other sign that she was confined or detained by a concerned adult. She looked like she just waltzed outside her room and into the frenzied war-like scenario.

Casting another glance at the child, keeping one hand firmly on one of her wrists, he tried once more to assess the situation, dredging up images of what he witnessed mere moments ago. As he continued to guess at what could have caused her unlikely survival at the hands of unknown raiders, something flashed into his mind--a memory that came and went with the speed and uncanny clarity of a camera. Those scavengers--those beings who roamed the ruined grounds searching for living victims walked around the perimeter from where this child sat; this vulnerable child from whom they would have faced no opposition had they decided to feast on her young flesh…those scavengers merely looked away and kept away.

_**They were aware of her…and wary of her…that's why they dragged their prize away rather than feast at their leisure…there was more than enough remains to gorge themselves in, yet they chose to leave the site of so much available food.**_

He remembered the smell of the rotting flesh and wasn't surprised by the presence of the carrion-eaters. The sight and scent of death, especially on such a scale, would be hard to miss. But there was something very curious about the victims. Though many of them were torn apart and some were so severely severed that they looked like broken dolls, there were quite a few who were whole—unbroken. And they all suffered the same fate: their throats were ripped off.

But not as cleanly as if with a knife or torn so ruthlessly like those made by beasts of prey. No—they appeared like they've been sawed open, like those opened by ragged razors. Understanding dawned on him the same moment he felt his skin being pierced by sharp talons.

Wrenching his arm away in reflex, he saw the culprit. Five razor-sharp crystalline talons tipped the fingers of the delicate doll-like hand--blood dripping into an open palm as a small tongue lapped at the crimson-colored liquid that gathered there. He saw the other pointed talon-tipped hand grab his dark coat and tried to haul him closer. He didn't dismiss the move carelessly but still he was surprised at the sheer force behind the movement. It almost brought him flat on his back. With a graceful flex of his limbs he launched himself into the air and landed a few feet away from his original spot. The child continued to lap and lick at his blood, her eyes now almost half-closed in ecstasy as satiation clearly manifested itself on her face.

_**She was purring like a well-fed cat.**_

Maybe it was the incredulous sight of her smile when she looked up at him--baring long, lethal, bloodied fangs--that froze him in place for a moment, or the sound of her child-like enjoyment that galvanized his body to do what he did. Whatever it was triggered ingrained reflexes and his body went through the motions without any directive from his mind. It fulfilled the preconditioned response when confronted by a child of the night—it went to killing mode.

In a move faster than the normal eyes could see, he lunged towards the child, grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, exposing the delicate column of her neck. His head swooped down, and in the faint light his own fangs glinted before they were buried into the smooth skin. With a jerk, the child in his arms tried to escape his embrace but he clamped down on her body with the barest application of force, rendering her attempts futile. He saw her eyes pop open, lashes fluttering before her pupils dilated until they were all but pinpoints of golden light on her face, registering emotion for the first time since he saw her.

_**She's afraid…like she was sleeping or in a trance until now…until pain made itself known…jerking her awake…Blood lust can dull any trace of emotion when one turns…and in someone as young as this…instincts take over a lot quicker.**_

The child in his arms screamed in agony but he blocked out the sound impassively. It wouldn't be the last time he would listen to the cries of the dying—those by his hands or by the hands of someone else—it was an occupational hazard he has learned to tolerate. He continued to drink, knowing that it would take but a few minutes to drain her. He wondered at the warmth that was slowly draining out of her and thought that he must be allowing pity to compromise his reactions. The child in his arms might look like a child but in truth she was an abomination—not just for humans but even for HIS kind. Immortal children were known for their voracious appetites and once aroused; there was no way to make them stop feeding except death.

The child's eyelids flickered…drooping until they closed--thick, dark lashes fanning against her smooth, blood-stained cheeks. Her rosebud lips parted once more but the deathly cries were now silenced, and all that he could hear was the labored breath rushing past them. When he lifted his head, the child had finally grown still. He felt something wet splash unto his hand and wondered if he spilled a drop of her blood when he pulled away.

He looked down at the wet spot on his glove and blinked. He turned to the child and saw a sight that froze him on the spot and nagged him for years to come. There, glinting in the light was a teardrop clinging to the edge of her lashes. It was the color of diluted blood--blood mixed unmistakably with tears. For the first time in years he felt the faintest twinge of disquiet. The child he carried in his arms now looked the part of a delicate doll. Even bloodied and scraped up, she was exquisite--looking like a cherub in repose. His eyes fell on the two puncture marks his fangs left behind; disturbed somewhat that such innocence should bear marks of violence and death. Without knowing why, he flexed his hand and used his index finger to cut a shallow wound on his wrist. Using the blood that oozed freely out of the wound, he traced a faint design on her skin, disguising the mark beneath the simple mark. When he was done, the puncture wound vanished beneath a small mark in the shape of a rose. Satisfied, he allowed the small body to rest on the blood-soaked ground and turned to go. He vanished just as dusk finally settled in the western heavens, bringing with it darkness that would last until the next dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

Authors Note:

I know that people are wondering why this story is being written and updated but not "Night Games". I would like to have a convenient explanation but the truth, I feel, might be more the thing. "NG" isn't speaking to me at the moment. My muse, if you will, demands a darker themed tale and as I am but a poor medium to the whims of fate--I have no choice but to succumb. I beg you to give a fair chance to this tale. And when it has had its say, I will go back into the arms of my beloved "NG". -kuroren.

* * *

**EDWARD POV**

_I saw to the child's end with the barest trace of regret. It was a job—more than that it was **MY** job. I did what was necessary and I did it in the most efficient way possible. It wasn't mercy that moved me to conceal the puncture marks I created beneath the black rose I drew on that child's skin, it was preservation. My world needed no connection with the mortal realm. With the unfortunate child drained until death, she could no longer inflict any harm by relating all that happened in that would-be condemned ground._

_I saw no point in making other humans speculate on our existence or sacrifice a child's mortal remains to the hysteria that the discovery of her __"cause for death" would have created. By marking her thus, I erased effectively both our past—mine from being noted, hers from causing fear and threat where none exist._

_I left the site of that massacre without a backward glance and with scarcely a spare thought in my mind. It was just another bloodbath I have witnessed and one of the few where I had not personally participated in. As far as I am concerned I had simply carried out the ruling of my world:_

_**None may know the existence of the Children of the Inconstant Moon. And no one that knows should be allowed to continue to live. Silence. Secrecy. Survival.**_

_These are the laws with which I and other Death Dealers like myself govern our ancient and often chaotic world. These are the rules that each one of us must uphold while we serve as enforcers of the unwritten laws of the Immortals of the Night._

_It is a duty I have carried out since I realized that there was only few fates that awaited those born into the arms of the Savage Garden—grow mad because of despair, loneliness, grief or any combination of those crippling emotions; become obsessed with the preservation of mortal concerns—knowledge, wealth, power, violence—a thorough exploration of the many and varied ways one could condemn one's Immortal soul and finally spend immortality searching for answers as to why fate chose you to live a life that is only half of what living should be._

_Personally…I found those options rather predictable. I chose to spend eternity honing skills and reflexes I never had time to realize were in me while I was mortal. Now that I have endless days to spend perfecting many lethal skills and none of the downside of injury or old age to deter me, I resolved to turn myself into a perfect weapon. After all, I'm thinking of spending my immortal life for a very worthwhile project. I have eternity to exact vengeance. The violence I encounter on a daily basis helps a great deal. I tend to look at it as practice._

* * *

The child woke in darkness.

Blackness that was all-consuming...everlasting obsidian depths that seemed to swallow her whole—body and spirit...nothing moved in that void…there was no sound…no sign that someone or something else other than herself existed within the chasm of seemingly endless night...

But even within this midnight abyss there were few things that she couldn't fail to notice. There was pain...her entire frame ached so much that the faint stirring of her own breath felt as punishing as a whip's lash...every sinew and muscle was drowning in agony that was further enhanced, not lessened, by the throbbing numbness spreading throughout her body.

She felt like her entire skin has been stripped back, leaving her raw and bleeding places she could no longer identify as her own. Around her neck there was a constricted feeling that threatened to choke her...like a frozen steel collar locked firmly around the thin column of her throat, cutting of all feeling and sensation save dryness and thirst that intensified with each breath.

Her head felt leaden, floating in and out of consciousness..._thoughts…memories…dreamscape or nightmare…she couldn't tell apart one from the other_…

The images were foreign, unknown and all too-vivid flashing through her mind, the nerves inside her mind sparking like a rampant network of flashing lights and explosions turning every image into one unidentifiable kaleidoscope of colors, impressions and sounds until she couldn't identity what was real and what was just a creation of her damaged mind.

For a moment the darkness was diminished by the light of the moon. The pale silvery light illuminated the woods that surrounded her, casting the trees under its eerie glow into figures that seemed better suited to nightmares. She was brought to keening awareness of the soaked feeling of her clothes and the inimitable smell of something dead and decaying...her exhausted mind came up with the name for that tell-tale scent--Death. Gritting her teeth against the wracking pain she forced her hands to push against the soaked earth, turning over until she could struggle to her knees. Winded, gasping, teeth clenched against the wave of nausea and pain, she forced her eyes to open, unaware of having closed them. Only then did she realize she was lying on a shallow pool of blood. Lifting her hands closer to her face, she realized in horror that the yielding earth she pushed against mere moments ago weren't blood-soaked earth but in fact was the rotting flesh of the hundreds of corpses lying beneath her. Her lips parted in an unearthly scream just as the moon hid its enigmatic face once more behind the cover of obsidian clouds.

--

**BELLA**

Bella stared at the faint stirrings of dawn as it painted her room with the unmistakable hues of a flame…lying on her back on the huge four poster bed…her eyes watching as the faint light crept slowly into the room…highlighting every nook and cranny until it found the hidden fires in her dark hair…uncanny blood-red strands amidst the thick mane and the tips of her lashes, illuminating her dark eyes until they glowed like deep pools of liquid earth…

** Someone was in her room…**

Bella closed her eyes once more, trying surreptitiously to slide beneath the heavy silken blankets once more, hoping that for once the people around her would take a hint and let her be...but when the faint tread came closer and then promptly stop, she had to sigh. Surrendering as gracefully as she could to the inevitable, she waited for the voice of whoever was unfortunate enough to be in her service for the day.

The maid for today was fairly young and not at all dainty in any way. Though Bella was aware that the maid introduced herself in the household staff's customary diffident manner, she paid no mind to it. The maids that served her were changed daily. For reasons known only to the master of the house, she was not permitted to form any sort of ties with the staff—ties that could only be forged when one has familiarity and constant encounters. And so for as long as she has been a resident of the mansion, she has had as many maids as the days she has spent within its walls.

Bella was woken up in the only manner that the master of the house permitted. Any maid in Bella's service were given two directives—one, they must never, under any circumstance touch her with their bare hands. If they must touch her, especially when they must rouse her from bed, they must touch no more than the tips of her toes—nowhere else. The second directive is that no one is allowed to speak to her face to face. Any comment, instruction or reminder must be stated while their eyes are downcast, no matter the circumstance.

Only once did she ask about this peculiar habit. She was told that a princess need not be concerned about the servants whose main purpose was to offer their skills. She was reminded strongly; albeit with the master's usual charm, that there were more things to be focused on rather than why her servants vary. She allowed herself to forget the episode and no longer aired out her opinion. She has learned to let no one but herself hear her own counsel.

** And my counsel is the only thing I have any control over anyways. **

Her days were meticulously drafted to take advantage of every moment to improve upon her skills, deportment and manners. She was their princess but even after all these years, she was not yet their "fair" princess. According to the mistress of the house, she was as yet, "unready, unrefined, and ill-suited" for her post. And so each day was a constant, ever-more tiring repetition of lessons to improve. She would be given tea and toast for breakfast. A fruit if it is in season. Then she must be bathed, oiled, perfumed, her hair dressed in an appropriate style. Once her daily regiment has been accomplished to a suitable degree, she will be given approval for the clothes she must wear for the day.

Today she was dressed a fine teal blue watered silk gown with a small train and bustle, edged in lace and handmade silk roses. Her long lustrous locks tied back into an intricate chignon kept in place by priceless ebony combs. Her feet encased in soft kid slippers and her hands in supple silken gloves. When her toilette is pronounced complete only her face and the barest margin of her neck could be seen.

Walking towards the free standing, full-length antique Cheval mirror position at a corner of her room she assessed the picture she made with a critical eye. The dress was appropriate—having been custom-made by a French couturier from the most expensive silk and exquisite hand-made lace. She noted the severe, if not unflattering chignon that kept every strand of hair in check. For some reason known only to the master himself, she was not allowed to let her hair down in public. Her face was naked except for the faintest dusting of powder. Her hands, likewise, were forbidden from being seen uncovered in public. It was due to this practice that she has gotten used to the impersonal feel of people and things around her. Precious diamonds dripped from the lobes of her ears. All in all, she looked the part of a princess.

Holding out her gloved hand, she waited until the final item for her attire was placed on her palm. With practiced ease she lifted her hands towards her neck to fasten the lock that would keep the item firmly in place. When she turned to go, the maid bowed her out of the room. As she made her way down the grand staircase, the light from the sun flowing into the room illuminated the delicate silver filigree choker, making the narrow band glimmer like liquid moonlight against the pale column of her neck.

* * *

**BELLA POV**

A pair of elaborately carved oak doors faced me the moment my shoe-clad feet reached the carpeted hall. With a deep breath, I mustered every ounce of courage I had in me and tried to compose my face into suitably meek and impassive lines.

In more ways than once coming into the morning drawing room felt like plunging into a battlefield. More than once in the past few years, I had entertained the thought of facing battles rather than steeling myself to cross the threshold that would lead me to THEM.

With a determined sigh and with head held high, I let out the breath I was holding and walked into the room.

It was a room meant to impress with its sheer luxuriousness. A massive mahogany table dominated the center of the room, one capable of sitting in comfort forty guests. Crystal goblets and priceless china were placed with precision, accompanied by a wealth of silver gleaming in the early morning light. Spotless linen napkins were meticulously folded alongside the delicate bone-china used to serve tea in. Servants quietly and expertly moved in to bring heated salvers of food to entice the palate of the table's occupants.

At its head sat the powerful mistress and second-in-command of the Loupe Garou, Leah, resplendent in a fiery crimson velvet gown even more elaborate than the one I was forced to wear. How she could stand to wear such an outfit, let alone navigate the extensive mansion grounds was something of a mystery. Especially as she, as was her custom, bedecked in ropes of priceless pearls wrapped around her neck. More pearls dripped from ears and graced her fingers that were tipped by brilliant scarlet nails.

And yet, all this illusion of wealth and gentility could not diminish the air of savagery and hostility that fairly echoed from where she sat like a pampered queen. I braced myself for the inevitable reprimand I knew was hovering on the edge on her tongue even as I proceeded with the customary curtsey demanded from all the ladies of the house. When she spoke, I was glad that my head was bowed for even prepared as I was, I couldn't help flinching from the raw censure dripping from every syllable.

"Well...it certainly took some time for you to finally grace us with your presence."

"Forgive me. I wasn't aware that I was making any one wait, my lady." I resolved to keep my tone as concialatory as possible. It was too early in the day to draw out battle lines.

"You have nothing to beg forgiveness for. My sister is merely suffering from ennui and needs a distraction to keep her foul moods at bay." Murmured a low, friendly voice. Casting a glance at my side, I almost gave in the overwhelming urge to answer the smile offered my way but I resisted the impulse.

The speaker was a young man, older by no more than a few years though already considerable in his size and build. He was dressed in an elegant blue suit and sat lounging on her sister's right. An open, friendly face and an honest appeal seemed to emanate from his very pore as he tried to make light of the situation, raising the tea cup he held in a parody of a toast. He only smiled when his sister turned her piercing glare towards his way.

"Seth! I told you to desist making such senseless comments. It is both groundless and unseemly for one in your situation."

"And so is your early morning hostility. Will you lighten up Leah? She just got up and you're already making her life miserable."

Desperate to ease the situation before it reached a stage that could prove problematic; I rose from my bow and offered an apology once more while keeping an eye on the mounting rage clearly marked on Leah's face.

"It's nothing like that Lord Clearwater...I am sorry if I am tardy in any way my lady. It will not happen again."

"See that it doesn't. Your instructor will be waiting in the Blue Room. Be ready in an hour. For now, you may proceed with breakfast."

"As you wish, my lady.?"

Thankfully, silence soon ensued and no other words were spoken as I waited for the servants to bring me the first course. This morning's meal would be just one of many tiresome and wearying meal time skirmishes. My day has truly began.


	4. Chapter 4

**PRINCE OF THE LOUPE**

**_(JACOB's POV)  
_**

Ah...you were so beautiful, precious one...You were like the purest light of the sun through autumn leaves...You set my heart to dreaming...You, with your hair the color of rain-dampened autumn leaves...Those bronze curls that swayed with the faintest stirring of the wind...And your guileless eyes that looked at me with such intoxicating innocence...I wanted so badly to possess you...You were meant to be mine but you were too willful...You wanted what you shouldn't have...But that's alright...I understand that you had to learn things the hard way...

I still dream of your luscious lips...your plump, moist lips...Lips that trembled whenever you are excited...Lips that you sweep with your quick agile tongue...Lips that parted with your every bated breath...But until the very end you denied me your lips...While I waited and longed from afar, you offered your lips to another...You gave freely to that baseborn fool what you have willfully kept from me...But fear not...I bear you no ill-will precious...A child is allowed to make mistakes...

You should've listened to me...I only wanted what's best for you...haven't I always looked out for you? I wanted so badly to protect you dear heart...I wanted so very badly to keep you near me...Always with me...Because that's where you belonged...That's where you were meant to be...With me...only with me...That loathsome fool should never have taken you from my side...Look at where his foolish adulation has brought you...I would have made you a queen and now look at where you are...Rotting in some nameless grave...Fit only for the consumption of worms and maggots...It is too late precious one...

She is here...

I have finally found someone to take your place...I told you that you would regret the choices you've made...I told you didn't I? Ah...but you were stubborn...so stubborn...so very stubborn...And now it is too late to say I told you so...Do not fret little love...The woman I found is quite suitable...And this time I will not allow the same mistakes to occur...I will hold her fast and never let her go...As you see, precious one, I too, have learned a few lessons of my own.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: This piece is a work in progress. Though I am happy that it moves along enough to ensure that my miserable writer's block will not last forever. - kuroren

* * *

**LEAH**

_POV_

Morning…

It was another morning...another start at the never-ending grind of existence that has slowly grown wearying and predictable over the years. I have learned to find acceptance in the normality that daylight awards our kind even as I try to deny the feeling of safety that the night and all the hidden dimensions it creates. I know that today would be a trying one…because of all the days, he is coming TODAY and every time HE comes along; he throws the entire household into a frenzy.

If you're wondering who I'm referring to, HE is the master of this house and leader of the clan to which I belong. Jacob Black. The man to whom I owe allegiance to and who elected me as his second-in-command. It would have been a thoroughly enjoyable task had it not been for a few things. For one he demands that things be perfect…that they be run according to his laws and his preference. And the Immortals as my witness, there has never been a more persnickety leader as he. However, I am nothing if not accomplished. I have yet to fail him or have him bring me to task. The only other thing we ever argued about was his choice of mate.

I am not a hypocrite. This wasn't the first time the issue of a mate, HIS mate, was raised within the walls of our clan's stronghold. Nearly half a century ago, he descended upon us in a frenzy of preparation, saying all the time that he has found the one. The castle was prepared, costly gowns were ordered, jewels commissioned. The only thing he kept from us was the name of the woman he has chosen. For a time, I in my ignorance allowed the clan to hold sway over my intellect. I allowed myself to believe in their speculation that I would be the one that he would wed. But when the gowns were delivered, I realized my folly and the bitter truth that burned through me. They were made for someone else. I admit being irrational and emotional at the time. Unknown to him I destroyed the gowns he had ordered, taking great pleasure in reducing the expensive garments into strips of useless tatters.

And even when the woman he has chosen declined his suit, choosing instead to spend her life with someone else and he went into a rampage destroying everything he has created for her, vowing menacingly that he would get his revenge, I no longer felt as attached to his affairs as I once used to. Half a century after I have allowed myself to foolishly assume that he could someday be mine, I reconciled myself to the task of securing my position as his second-in-command. I no longer wish to be wed to the man I call Lord. I realize now, in the face of yet another of his chosen the lashings of shame and betrayal that has yet to fully fade.

_** Speak of the devil.**_

I looked up just in time to see her arrive. I resisted the urge to snarl. _**Barely**_. There was something about that girl that raised my hackles no matter what she does. _**THAT girl**_. That's how I've referred to her since she was brought to our home. And that is how I'll always refer to her. Nothing has changed. I have argued long and hard with him not to bring strangers into the clan stronghold but just like with everything else, in the end, his decision won out and the girl stayed. And here she remained. On his order she was treated like a pampered princess…dressed in costly gowns…waited on hand and foot, given every luxury imaginable. Trained and tutored to be the very epitome of grace and beauty—ensuring that she would be a suitable consort for the clan head.

Today she was clad in a dark teal gown…so contrasting to my own favored scarlet ones that I took the very presence of it as a personal insult. That the diamonds she wore was as costly as the pearls I had was also another strike against her as far as I was concerned. There was of course her hair. While HE was away, I decreed that the thick mass would be confined in a chignon, out of her face and out of the way. But once HE comes back from his brief sojourns into the city where he held business dealings, everything the girl wore now would have to be changed and it was _**ME**_ who has to deal with it.

HE demands that his fair princess be clad in nothing but pale shades. Ivory, creams and pristine white gowns made with a profusion of lace and silk. Personally, it made the already pale-skinned girl even more sallow-looking but he seemed to prefer that. Her skin would be washed of any cosmetics (_not that she wears any_) and perfumed with nothing stronger than rose water. But most important of all was that girl's hair. HE was adamant that the long mass be curled into tight curls that would flow from her brow to her waist; thick red-shot sable hued tresses confined by nothing more elaborate than pale, pastel-tinted velvet ribbons. When I have done the necessary alterations to her dress and coiffure I would have the exasperating task of presenting her before I would be released to see to my other duties.

I gave out another annoyed sigh. The girl went through the customary pleasantries and my irritation was raised exponentially by the presence of my annoying, complacent, friendly-as-a puppy brother. Seriously, if we weren't blood-siblings I would hang his over-grown derriere up on some tree and have him lashed. The fact that he was an accomplished fighter and a loyal clansman did not diminish my irritation especially since I was well-aware of his real task within the estate.

* * *

**SETH**

_POV  
_

His lord was home. Seth knew however that no matter the state of his lord's presence or absence within the walls of the clan's estate, his directive will remain the same: to guard, secure and protect the woman his lord and master gave into his keeping. He was charged with her protection from any and all harm.

Any other man would have allowed his lord and his betrothed privacy during their intimate interludes, but Seth knew better. He was tasked with the preservation of his leader's chosen. Under no circumstance must he allow his own concepts and opinions to color his judgment. And so he stood watching over her as was his custom, keeping his distance as a matter of courtesy. And it was during these quiet sessions when he stood guard for his lord and his lady that he saw something that shook his complacency regarding the status of the man that he owed everything to.

He watches her with the eyes of a man possessed. His eyes would follow her around wherever she goes. Tracking her every move, every breath she drew. For the man he calls his lord, there seemed to be nothing else in the world worthy of his attention or his time but the lady he chose as his mate. He was totally enamored to his lady, possessive of her every claim.

He understood passion. To some extent he even understood what love is supposed to be like between two people. Given that he was raised in a clan that strongly believes in predestination when it comes to choosing a partner, he could take into account the sheer force that draws people together. He is also pragmatic enough to understand that sometimes passion and love do not reside in the same place. Passion is an emotion that can exist where the love need not be present.

But whatever it was that his lord felt--it wasn't simply love or passion. Whatever emotion he held for the woman he brought into the clan stronghold and claimed as his betrothed was something far more intense than love and far more consuming than mere passion.

Yes, there was the requisite solicitousness, the air of fidelity that marks true companions as well as the obvious expressions of adoration like gifts and baubles. But that wasn't what nagged at his senses and made him see what others would simply chalk up as proof-positive of someone in love.

It was in the way his eyes held her. The glitter of inhuman glee that marked them whenever he thought no one was looking. There was intensity to them that he had only seen in a few people and in the most extreme of situations. They were the eyes of the fanatics on the verge of rampage…the same fixated gaze that obsessed collectors have whenever in the presence of their possessions…

There was none of the tender emotions that he associates with love. There was only—an all-consuming awareness in his lord's gaze, as if whatever he felt for the woman he has chosen to be his mate was more than just love—love was too paltry, too simple a term to describe the sheer force of his ardor. He seemed consumed by her—as if her very existence justified his…completing and complimenting some grand design that only he could see and interpret.

Many a day I have spent with them, standing close enough to protect but no closer. I give my lord leave over his lady but there were just as many instances in as many days when I feel hesitant leaving her alone to his will. Dark days, when his smiles would be like slashes on a face that only bore passing resemblance to that of a human…when his voice would lower to that fearsome, spine-tingling register that made every sound and word he uttered seem like a growling rumble…his body would move with the grace of a hunting cat stalking its would be quarry, surrounding it, alternating between playful swipes and aggressive taunts and force…but more than anything those dark days gave new meaning to the gleam in his eyes that only peeks when few of us ever dare to look or wish to see…the gleam that proclaims to all that the woman beside him is not just a mate…she was prey.


	6. Chapter 6

Standard Disclaimer applies since this is the original product of Ms. Meyer's gifted mind. I am merely borrowing her "cast". I haven't written in a while for this fic. I am not certain whether I am grateful that there hasn't been enough darkness inside my mind that prevented me from empathizing with this story or saddened by the fact that I have allowed it to languish for so long. No matter what, I wish for those that read this before and those that will discover it for the first time to enjoy themselves.

* * *

_**  
Fate, out of the deep sea's gloom,  
When a man's heart's pride grows great,  
And naught seems now to foredoom Fate,**_  
_ Prelude - Tristan And Isolde__** , **__Algernon Charles Swinburne_

_

* * *

_

**BELLA**

Perhaps ingratitude was my sin. Indifference my awarded curse. If that were so, it would certainly explain why I feel the way I do towards the one man that has given me a new leash on life—Jacob Black, leader and lord of the Loupe Garou. Jacob rescued me from the horrors of the night that's been seemingly wiped from my mind along with every memory and piece of my past. That phantom night that left me with a damaged mind haunted by unending nightmares and visions of blood and death.

I know what I owe Jacob was something I could never repay in this lifetime or the next. **_I owe him my very existence_**. Every morning that dawn on me and I still breathed is a debt that accumulates on my silent, telling account. I owe him for the clothes that warms my skin and allows me to keep my dignity as well as the food that nurtures my strength and keeps me from fighting for scraps like a common mongrel on the streets. I owe him for the sanity I would do anything to preserve—even when that very commodity seems cracked and broken. _**I owe him. **Most of all I owe him _for the high walls that guard me from a world that has taken everything of value from me.

And yet…here I am…indifferent to my benefactor. The touch of his hand burns against my flesh more than the frigid kiss of the winds that blows past my window during winter's deepest frost. My skin would tingle uncomfortably every time it would collide with his…the faintest touch sent me shuddering and had I allowed myself to show the true extent of my distaste he would not have mistaken my true feelings for his regard. I quiver at the brush of those fiery digits…trembling at the feel of his searing lips brushing against my cheeks as steely arms enfolded me in an embrace that made a mockery of its warmth. There was no warmth to be felt in the circle of his arms. Only the tell-tale perfume of death that could be delivered to my person as smoothly and as easily as his all-too consuming hold.

"Bella…"

I would've cringed had I been allowed such concession. But experience—_ever the most unworthy of virtues_—comes to my aid, always.

"Yes, My lord…what need do you have of me?"

"Ah…need…I wish you wouldn't speak of such tings to me. You are not some possession nor are you a servant in my home. I wish for you to cease the use of such language."

The smile he leveled my way froze the blood in my veins and I had to swallow once more to force my throat to work and my voice to not give so much as a wobble. I reined in every wayward emotion and tried once more to speak with customary serenity.

"Forgive me my lord. I have forgotten myself. Speak, my lord. I await your words."

"Ah…you soothe me so Bella…would that I could keep you with me always."

The satisfaction in his eyes wounded me. Had I enough blood to bleed I would have chosen insurrection and the resulting beating. When his lips brushed a kiss across my knuckles it was all I could do not to wrench my hands away but the watchful awareness in his eyes taught me all too well that doing that would only cause me more things to ache for.

"I live only to serve you Master…"

"Ah…it is enough that you exist sweet Bella…that my eyes could feast upon your form is enough to compensate all my labor and my time."

"You are generous as always, my lord."

His eyes bored into mine, the smile that hovered over his lips phantom like in their flimsiness. In that instant I knew and understood that he knew and understood my feelings just as well. His eyes glowed with the faintest satisfaction of seeing me tremble in awareness…the shock of realization crystallizing in the pit of my stomach as a yawning abyss loomed over me. _**It's over**_. _**He knows the truth.**_

"Yes…I am generous…aren't I Bella? And yet I wonder…why hasn't my generosity been awarded by that which I desire the most?"

"Perhaps my lord needs to learn patience a bit more--!"

"Patience?"

"Y-yes…patience my lord."

"I have been more than patient Bella. I think it is time that you give me what you owe me."

"L-lord--!"

My grateful eyes sought those of my guard and for a moment a shared look of panic flashed between our gazes. I nearly crumpled in relief when I heard Seth clear his throat to gain Jacob's attention.

"Highness, if I may interrupt."

"Tread lightly Seth, lest I forget that among other things I count you a valued friend. Speak quickly."

"I beg your forgiveness Highness, but the council has arrived. You implicitly asked that you be informed as soon as they reach our territories."

"You needn't remind me of what I said." With a final penetrating look at the bowed head of Seth, he turned towards me and as was his custom before leaving, he brushed a kiss across my knuckles. I gathered all my courage and gave him a small smile. "I am sorry that I must leave you again dearest Bella."

I struggled to give a gracious nod.

"Duties are a part of a leader's life, my lord. It is one's lot in life to look after the interests of the brethren."

"I am glad you understand my position so well. We will finish our discussion some other time. Seth, I hope you will be as vigilant of my words as you are of your duties."

"I will do all that I can to serve faithfully Highness."

"See that you do."

I looked nervously at my given guard, surprised to see that instead of looking at both our master's departing back, he was looking straight into me. I had to look away. My eyes betray me—**always**. Had I not known long ago the price for showing whatever truth that lies inside of me I would've attempted to prevaricate. And while it was not in me to lie—I am no fool. He is kindness personified to me on occasions that suit him and his pleasure but there are also occasions when I had to bear witness to his fierce nature. Seth was as much a prisoner as he is my keeper.

I am his princess. But I am more of a token—taken like spoils of war. In his eyes I am no longer a human with choices to make and decisions to yield to. No, in his eyes I am no more than a warm, yielding, living doll. Dressed and coiffed like one. Positioned in a tableau that he desires, controlled by strings that he has tied to my body to make me dance to his chosen tune, held in a chain of subservience long before my mind understood what imprisonment truly meant.

I have learned long ago that my person—my entire being—is no longer mine to control and command. As long as I stay within the four walls of this stronghold, as long as I am a slave to its master's generosity—I am as destitute of freedom as the lowliest of slaves. Worse, whereas a slave has the option of death or being sold to gain freedom—either option is forever denied to me. Whereas a slave gains employ and wages for the cursed privilege of labor, I pay with my serenity, my time, my very existence.

It was this awareness of what and who I am that caused my surprise and shock when later that night, Seth stole into my room and spirited me away from the only home we have both known to take me into a life of that would be spent on the run.

* * *

_**Fate, laden with fears in wait,  
Draws close through the clouds that loom,  
Till the soul see, all too late,**_

**Chateau Noir**

A tiny figure of w young woman stood a few feet away from an unusually large picture window. Dressed in an elegant but simple black silk sheath, her dark hair cut short close to her pixie-like face and her limbs adrift with pearls, she stood dwarfed by the sheer size of the window from whence she stared at something on the horizon only she could see. The frame alone, whose dimensions were close to two meters in length and width dominated almost half of the wall, baring it to the unfettered cascade of fiery sunlight that heralded dusk and the coming night. She turned to address the room; the sun's light casting a golden glow on her impossibly beautiful face.

"He's still out there."

"What in the hell is he up to now? More to the point, where in Hades' hell is that punk ass brat now?"

The voice that spoke was sensual, laced with the faintest trace of charm characteristic of those raised in a genteel environ. The audience turned to the speaker and noted the shocking crimson leather cat suit that followed the lines of a body shaped like every male's fantasy. She tossed her head and golden tresses cascaded like silk down her exposed back, framing an exquisite face that displayed lush lips and brilliant golden eyes. Strapped on her thighs were numerous blades and small daggers.

"Language, Rose." A gentle masculine voice reprimanded from behind a shadowed pillar and the woman pinned the speaker with a scathing glare that the man merely shrugged off. Dressed in a simple black cashmere turtleneck and chinos, Jasper leaned against one of the pillars in the lushly appointed penthouse suite easily as his eyes kept track of the agitated blonde's pacing. "You know how he is. He will come around when it suits him and never before. Now, mind the words you say, my dear. It is unseemly for such crude words to come from such delicate lips."

She opened her lips to defend herself when a loud guffaw followed the gentle reprimand. This time the one that spoke was a large mountain of a man with a deep voice and twinkling eyes a darker shade of gold. Dressed in black leather duster, vest, a heavily tooled leather pants and huge biker boots he made a startling, intimidating presence that belied that easy going way he sat on a leather sofa.

"Delicate my butt. Rose doesn't know what that means." He waved a hand at the woman in question and laughed some more. "She's pricklier than a cactus in the desert especially where he is concerned." The smile forming on his lips was wiped clean when she came closer to him, a smile even nastier than any he has seen on his own face painted on her own pouting red lips. She straddled his hips and casually drew out a gleaming dagger that she placed across his left cheek.

"Emmett honey, what did you just say?"

Breathing deeply Emmett raised both hands in the air, palms facing his clearly enraged partner. "Oh can it honey, all I'm saying is that you can be as indelicate as you wish when you want to be. No need to pretend when it's just us here, right?" He turned pleading eyes towards the other occupant of the room.

Rose laughed softly she leaned more of her weight on Emmett, effectively increasing the pressure of the blade against his skin. Her eyes gleamed in amusement when she heard Emmett take a deep breath. "You can be such a sweetheart hon, but next time you say things like that to me, I will pour honey all over you and crucify you in an anthill."

"Damn, I know I married you for a reason."came the cheeky reply. Rose dimpled as she rose from her perch. Jasper contented himself with an uncharacteristic roll of his eyes and a droll murmur of divine intervention.

"God help us if they ever take it upon themselves to try and be romantic." He turned towards the huge picture windows and smiled down at the woman who burrowed into his embrace with a worried look in her golden eyes. He bent to place a kiss on her raven locks as his hands automatically brushed along the line of her spine, seeking to give as much comfort as she would need.

"Jasper…"

"He knows what he is doing. You must trust him to know what to do…why do you worry so when you, among all of us, know how things would unravel in the future Alice?"

"It's because the future is like a murky pond where he is concerned. He is not as predictable as the rest of you. He hasn't been since that night. I had hoped he would have forgotten all about whatever it was that haunted him. Or leastways, he would found his usual serenity. Jasper, can't you--!"

Jasper laid a single finger across her lips and peered deeply into her sad eyes. He brushed a palm across her cool cheeks before bestowing a brief kiss on her lips.

"You cannot change his mind or force his will. I will not violate his privacy nor would I allow myself to be used against one of our own. Even if the one 'corrupting' me happens to be you, my love."

"I cannot stand here and watch him despair over something even I cannot fathom!"

"When he has need of you—nay—when he has need of us, we will be there for him. Until then, we wait and suffer with him. It is all that we could do."

"But--!" She sighed before she looking back at the blood-red sky. "I just want to know. What in the world is he searching for all of these years?"

* * *

_**More dark than a dead world's tomb,  
More high than the sheer dawn's gate,  
More deep than the wide sea's womb,  
Fate.**_


End file.
